


Tattoo It On Your Arm

by wordsandstars



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Anti-Possession Tattoos, F/M, My First AO3 Post, Post Nogitsune
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-20
Updated: 2014-02-20
Packaged: 2018-01-13 04:01:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1211935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordsandstars/pseuds/wordsandstars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles gives a huff that might have been a laugh in other circumstances. “Want to go get a tattoo with me?” he asks.</p><p>Her lips purse. “Tattoo of what?” she finally decides on saying.</p><p>“An anti-possession charm,” he says, and his tone sounds clipped.</p><p>She pauses, and then snaps her textbook closed loudly enough Stiles probably hears it on the other end. “Yeah,” she says. “Yeah, I do.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tattoo It On Your Arm

Lydia’s phone rings just past 9a.m. on the Sunday after the Nogitsune has been destroyed.

The Caller I.D has Stiles’ name written out in neat block letters, and a picture of him during the six weeks between one shit storm and the other that she took once is flashing on the screen. Lydia hesitates, but then reaches for it.

“You’re lucky I was already awake studying,” she says by way of hello.

Stiles gives a huff that might have been a laugh in other circumstances. “Want to go get a tattoo with me?” he asks.

Her lips purse. “Tattoo of what?” she finally decides on saying.

“An anti-possession charm,” he says, and his tone sounds clipped.

She pauses, and then snaps her textbook closed loudly enough Stiles probably hears it on the other end. “Yeah,” she says. “Yeah, I do.”

**

The jeep pulls into her driveway twenty minutes later; Lydia sees it from her bedroom window.

She’s changed from the sleep-shorts and tank top she’d been wearing into a sleeveless green blouse and the one pair of jeans she owns, because it’s freaking December and also because she wants the tattoo on her hip. She slips into a pair of two inch black wedges before walking out her bedroom door. She’s left a note on the kitchen counter for her mom to find, if she even ever goes looking.

Stiles lifts a hand in a wave when he sees her through the windshield, and pushes the passenger side door open for her.

“It sticks,” he explains as she gets in. She nods.

“So, do you have a picture of what we’re planning on getting permanently etched onto our bodies, or is it going to be a surprise for all?” she drawls as he pulls out.

Stiles digs into his pocket in response, eyes never leaving the road. He hands her a folded piece of paper.

Printed out in black ink is a symbol Lydia recognizes. “Isn’t this the one from Supernatural?” she asks.

Stiles shrugs. “Turns out there’s fact behind fiction sometimes. There’s a few changes to it, though.” He smiles thinly at her. She counts it as a small win.

Since he’s still looking at the road, she uses the drive as an opportunity to actually _look_ at Stiles. She hasn’t seen him since the Nogitsune tried to kill them all, and Stiles fought back from it long enough for Deaton to do whatever the hell it is that Deaton does. In this case, save them all. Including Stiles.

He looks tired, is what she decides on. There are bags around his eyes, which are bloodshot. His hands shake minutely, even from how they’re clenched on the steering wheel. He doesn’t look like he’s eaten much, either.

Her phone buzzes from inside her purse, and she digs it out to find a text from Scott.

 ** _have you seen Stiles?_** it reads.

 ** _Yes,_** she types back. **_He’s with me. Don’t worry, he’s fine._**

 ** _K,_** Scott replies. **_Thanks._**

She puts her phone back in her purse without answering.

“Scott?” Stiles guesses, and she startles a little.

“Yeah,” she says when she has control of her heartbeat and breathing again. “Worried, I guess.”

“Can’t really blame him,” Stiles mutters, and pulls into the parking lot of the one tattoo parlor Beacon Hills has to offer before Lydia can start thinking about the night she spent looking for Stiles with Scott, the Sheriff, and Aiden. Not one of her favourite nights.

The guy at the counter asks them for I.D before either of them can get a word out. Lydia’s is fake, courtesy of Danny, but Stiles’ isn’t. He’s been branded as the Sheriff’s kid since he was nine. He puts it on the counter on top of paperwork. Lydia can see a signature she assumes is the Sheriff’s on the bottom of the page.

The guy looks down the page and driver’s licenses, and then hands them back. Smirks at them.

“What do you guys want done?” His hands unfold on either side of him in a poor imitation of a magician showing off a trick.

Lydia hands him the paper. The guy unfolds it, and his smirk grows wider.

“Oh, you’re those kind of kids,” he says, knowingly, and laughs like it’s some kind of private joke. “You know it’s not right.”

“Pretty sure it is,” Stiles says. Lydia looks over to see him scowling, although it’s subdued, to his credit.

The tattoo artist shrugs. “Whatever, man, it’s your skin. Who’s going first?”

Stiles does, and follows the artist behind a curtain. Lydia, in turn, follows him, because her only other option is to wait in the otherwise empty entranceway. She’d rather be with Stiles.

She sits down in a chair up against the wall, not really paying attention to what they’re saying or doing.

Until Stiles takes off his shirt. And her mouth may or may not dry.

Jesus _Christ._ No one told her that somewhere along the line, Stiles Stilinski developed _muscle._  
He’s not Derek ripped, sure (who is, honestly), but he’s certainly up there with the rest of the pack.

She swallows, prays it wasn’t audible, and manages to get out,

“Where are you going to get it?”

He turns around, reaches back to tap his left shoulder blade. She thinks its maybe because he doesn’t want to have to look at it, be reminded constantly of why he needs it. She doesn’t say that though. All she does is nod when he turns around again.

He straddles the chair, lays his bare chest across the back so his own back is on display. She decidedly does _not_ stare at the muscles in his back as they shift in time to Stiles getting comfortable.

He flinches at the sound of the needle buzzing, but stays ramrod still when it hits his skin and the artist starts to draw.

“Don’t like needles?” Lydia asks.

Stiles huffs out a laugh. “No,” he answers. “Not in the slightest.”

Lydia hums instead of further replying. She watches with mild interest as the artist works, and the tattoo slowly fills out across Stiles' shoulder blade.

The tattoo takes less time than either of them expects, and Stiles starts to wonder just how many crazy Supernatural fans live in Beacon Hills. More than he knows of, clearly.

The tattoo artist tapes a square bandage over the tattoo, and then lets Stiles go. Lydia gets up, and Stiles takes her seat, carefully sitting on the edge of the seat so he’s at no risk of hitting the back of the chair with his shoulder.

“What about you?” Stiles asks her. “Where are you planning on getting yours?”

“Hip,” she answers, and grabs the hem of her shirt to peel it off over her head.

Stiles chokes. The artist snorts, loudly, at him. Stiles scowls at him.

“Good choice,” he chokes out.

Lydia gives him a little smile like she knows exactly what she’s doing—who is he even kidding, he knows she does—and sits primly in the chair.

“You want the same thing, right?” The artist says.

“I want the same thing,” she confirms, fingers dancing over the barely there divot of her hipbone. “Right here.”

The antiseptic is cold, and the needle’s bite is a little harsh, but it’s nothing she can’t handle. Her breathing and heartbeat stay their usual calm selves, as does she.

She is glad, however, for the loose, flowing bottom of her blouse, because when the tattoo’s done—smaller than Stiles’, nestled neatly into the small shallow of her hipbone, exactly how she wanted it—even the slightest ghost of a touch on it hurts. She doesn’t envy how much Stiles has to stretch his to get his shirt back on at all.

The artist gives them both strict instructions on how to care for their new tattoos. Lydia nods along, only half-listening, figuring she can use some of her researching skills and know more than he’s telling them in half the time he’s taking.

He finally lets them go, and she pays for both of them while Stiles isn’t looking.

“You can return the favour,” she says as she puts her credit card back in her purse.

“How?” Stiles asks, raising an eyebrow and opening the passenger side door of the jeep open for her once they’re outside.

“By buying me breakfast,” she replies. “Brunch or lunch are both good alternate choices as well.”

He narrows his eyes. She thinks, briefly, that he’s going to call her out on the fact that this is most certainly a tactic to try to get him to eat, but he doesn’t. Instead, he gives in.

Good, she thinks to herself. Save her some trouble. And time.

They end up in a diner near the edge of town, sitting on the stools at the counter so Stiles won’t forget about his shoulder and lean back.

She orders for both of them before he can even get a word out, and he glares at her.

“Drink your coffee,” is all she says. He continues to glare; she continues to ignore him.

“So,” she says once he’s finally stopped, “Anti-possession tattoos.”

She looks over to see him physically struggling with an answer. Arms flailing and mouth opening and closing. Finally, he deflates, slumping against the countertop.

“I knew what was happening, sometimes,” he says, so quietly she can barely hear him. “But I couldn’t stop it. I couldn’t _do anything._ ”

He sounds so wrecked, so tired, sitting there vulnerable and heartbroken on a bar stool at 10:25 in the morning.

Lydia does the first thing she can think of, which is to grab his hand and squeeze it, hard. When it doesn’t gain her much of anything, she uses him as leverage to twist on her seat until she facing him, and then pulls at him with both hands until he’s leaning against her—she’s leaning her unblemished hip into the counter to keep them both upright—and her arms are around him.

“You did everything,” she whispers to him. “You got your dad out of the Sheriff’s station, and figured out a way to tell him where the real bomb was.” She pauses. Breathes in and out steadily. Continues, “You left us all those little hints, Stiles. Figured out how to get the Nogitsune out of you when we couldn’t.” She swallows. “When I couldn’t.”

He finally pulls away from her, and they both pretend his eyes aren’t shining with unshed tears.

“Thanks,” he whispers, and she nods. She thinks he’s done, but he isn’t. “Lydia, you went to _Peter_ to try to help me. The guy who tried to kill you. You were trying just as hard as I was.”

This time, it’s him who reaches for her hand. 

**Author's Note:**

> The title's from Melissa's speech to Scott about love. It seemed right, even though neither of them gets a tattoo on their arm.  
> So, this is my first fic on AO3, although not my first online. Let me know what you think, I guess? Idek.


End file.
